Polite Society
by Susan M. M
Summary: Magnificent Seven (Dungeons & Dragons AU) Sir Chris Larabee hates polite society, but King Orin has ordered him to attend Lady Roxandra's ball. Unfortunately, Lady Maude's son Ezra is also there. PWP (plot? what plot?)


****Standard Fanfic Disclaimer**** that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters, other than Lady Roxandra and minor NPCs. All characters will be returned to their original owners, unharmed (or at least suitably bandaged). This story is set in the Neon Rainbow Gang's M7 Dungeons and Dragons AU. It was originally published in the fanzine __Let's Ride #19__ , published by Neon Rainbow Press, and has been cross-posted at AO3.

 **Polite Society**

by Susan M. M

Sir Christopher Larabee took a sip of wind and scowled. He wasn't scowling at the wine. The vintage was exquisite. The golden goblet containing the wine could easily have been sold for the price of a trained warhorse, or a dozen flocks of sheep. No, it was the company that annoyed him. He despised empty-headed, perfumed nobles.

Granted, the tall, blond knight was noble-born himself. But he and his family were the sort of land barons who tended to their estates, protected their people, and fought for their king. His father didn't come to court more than once in three years. But these popinjays – he doubted any one of them knew when barley was ready to harvest, or had ever been inside one the peasants' huts on their estates, or even knew how to saddle their own horses.

Sir Christopher wished he didn't have to be here. There were a thousand more practical things he could be doing: he had destriers to train, an injured falcon to nurse, swordsmanship to practice, fields to inspect. Unfortunately, King Orin had informed Sir Christopher that an up-and-coming knight, especially one who hoped to sit on the Royal Council, needed to spend time with more people than just other knights and warriors. The king had none too gently hinted that Lady Roxandra's ball would be a painless way to get better acquainted with polite society.

Sir Christopher had no desire to sit on the Royal Council, but the king's will – _gods preserve him,_ he thought, raising his goblet in a silent but patriotic salute before draining it – the king's will was law.

Lady Roxandra was rumored to be not quite respectable, and filthy rich. Therefore, everyone who was anyone fought tooth and nails for invitations to her parties.

"I thought our hostess was supposed to be an enchantress," Lord Joffre murmured to his dancing partner as they glided past Sir Christopher. "Why can't she conjure the white out of her hair?"

"My dear, she's a foreigner," Lady Nyona replied, as though that explained everything from a middle-aged woman whose hair was liberally salted with white to keeping pigs in the parlor. Nyona's own hair had not been the color nature intended in decades. Yellow paste smothered gray locks now, as it had previously smothered black.

"Perhaps she's not a very good magician," Joffre suggested.

"Perhaps," Lady Nyona agreed. "Oh, look! Lady Oshanna! I'm surprised she dared to show her face in public after what happened with the Delrisi ambassador." And she proceeded to enlighten Lord Joffre as to the latest scandal.

Sir Christopher frowned. Polite society. Obviously neither Nyona nor Joffre's mothers and taught them any manners. They ate Roxandra's food, drank her wine, and then gossiped about the fact she didn't dye her hair.

The knight's hazel eyes narrowed. Something caught his attention that displeased him more than rude party guests. He strode over to the buffet table, neither knowing nor caring that he looked like a drill-sergeant marching across a practice field. He locked eyes with a younger man, then glanced pointedly at the corner.

Without a word, the younger man preceded the knight into the corner. He was at least five years younger than Sir Christopher, perhaps as many as ten, and a good deal shorter. His hair was dark brown, almost black; the candlelight revealed auburn highlights as he walked past the silver wall sconces. He was dressed as befit a nobleman: a red silk tunic, a white linen shirt, black leggings knit from the finest lamb's wool. His jewelry was understated; a gold signet ring on his left hand, a golden pendent inset with a crimson spinel (which could, in this lighting, pass for a ruby).

"Ezra." Sir Christopher pronounced the name scornfully. "What in the name of the Nine Hells are _you_ doing here?"

Ezra Standish nodded slightly. He held up his own goblet in his left hand and in his right hand a porcelain plate laden with chopped bits of fruit, vegetables elaborately carved into flower shapes, and thinly sliced ham. "Merely appreciating the quality of our hostess' cellar and kitchen, my lord."

"Empty your pockets."

"Your insinuation is offensive, my lord," Ezra replied.

"Empty your pockets," Sir Christopher repeated.

"When I entered King Orin's service, I gave my word that my," he paused, trying to find a genteel euphemism, "youthful indiscretions would not be repeated. Are you doubting my word?"

"Yes."

* * *

"Lady Oshanna and the ambassador…"

"The fleet sails east in two days…"

"My wife and I have… an understanding about such things…"

"Lord Walron and his new page…"

Lady Roxandra merely smiled as the dancers whirled past her. The _spell of the listening ear_ had two unfortunate side-effects. One was the splitting headache with which it invariably left her. The other was the sheer boredom of listening to the petty, backbiting gossip of the empty-headed social climbers who crowded her parties like hogs at a feeding trough.

Nevertheless, the spell was worth the attendant inconveniences. She let the gossip pass in one ear and out the other, as she paid attention to a pirate captain chatting with a navy lieutenant in the far corner of the ballroom. Her smile broadened. She was not nearly as rich as people supposed, and her tastes were expensive. The king would pay well to know which of his officers was betraying fleet deployments.

"When I entered King Orin's service, I gave my word that my youthful indiscretions would not be repeated. Are you doubting my word?"

"Yes."

Lady Roxandra frowned. She recognized both those voices. The king's chief intelligencer, her principal client as an information broker, had specifically requested that both be invited to this party. He'd also warned her to keep an eye on them, as Sir Christopher had a tendency to be as subtle as a billy-goat in a glassblower's shop, and Ezra… Well, Ezra was Lady Maude's son, and her star pupil. She drifted over to the corner, smiling and nodding at her guests as she passed them.

"Ezra! There you are, hiding in the corner, when I've been looking all over for you," Lady Roxandra cooed. "Sir Christopher, shame on you, monopolizing this young man, when I need him."

"My lady?" Ezra looked up at her, his green eyes twinkling.

"There's a certain young lady who wants to meet you, but she's far too shy to approach you without an introduction. I am going to take you to meet her, you will ask her to dance, and then, well," Roxandra smiled, "whatever happens after that is up to the two of you."

"I would be honored, my lady," Ezra replied. "But only if _you_ promise to save me a dance later."

"Scamp! I'm old enough to be your mother."

"But still the most beautiful woman here," Ezra fibbed gallantly.

Roxandra smiled ingenuously at Sir Christopher. "You will excuse us, won't you?"

"Of course, my lady." Sir Christopher gritted his teeth as she drew young Standish away, but there wasn't anything he could say or do under the circumstances. He'd catch up with the rogue later, and see what mischief he was up to.


End file.
